


Signature _In Writing

by Silvara, Sylvara (Silvara)



Series: Keyboards and Sparks [5]
Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types
Genre: (Author is not a native English writer), (but it's all meant to be), (so yeah some are alive in their own terms), Character Development (Alan), Devotion, Identity Issues, Implied hacking, Intimacy, Not Beta Read, Other, Power-User | SU | bamf User, Romantic Tension, Sparks are tiny shards of a programmer's spirit, Submission, Tron Programs Lore, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28477200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvara/pseuds/Silvara, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvara/pseuds/Sylvara
Summary: ""[You could begin working through my disk]," He rose his other palm up. "[or you couldtraceon my patterns.In writing ]."
Relationships: Alan Bradley & Tron, Alan Bradley/Tron, Creator & Creation - Relationship
Series: Keyboards and Sparks [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/59790
Kudos: 3





	Signature _In Writing

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings**  
>  Types of interfacing: _Patterns_  
>  Canon Reference: Legacy  
> Associated headlore: _Imputing parameter on the go. From Grid level._  
>  Sexy?: Mature content. Nothing sexual in nature. Nothing profane in culture. (And hopefully neither in nature.)

  
It was in passing by, as they walked along parted crowds of swarming streets, deep in the first sector of the Grid.

Alan-One anounced the imminency of his next Blessing... As would conceptors, he only mentioned it casually, as if broadcasting a mere routine maintenance.

However, as vital and recurrent as it was, an update meant a lot. Once again, Tron would be changed for the better to take better advantage of the system's features. Without words, though a private channel, they scheduled a date stamp for the meeting.

(It was never wise to broadcast exactly the time and date of when the head of security would be offline at his private IO Tower. Even if his friends and delegate functions were on watch, Tron remained the first line of defense of the System and its inhabitant’s security was his responsibility.)

Before they reached the highway to the portal, after unending micros of internal debating, the program finally decided himself.

He touched his Conceptor's elbow. 

When Alan-One turned around mildly perplexed, Tron held his pointers a few picos.

"[You can you reopen the portal manually from here with your disc, now], right?"

At his maker's nod he let out a breath. "[Please elaborate on the process]. [I would like to know more about it]."

Alan-One didn't look surprised. This wasn't the first time that he had required detailed information a project the users had started working on. Ensuring their security at every step was at the heart of his directives, after all. 

"You saw it yourself last time I came. As long as I'm not gone, the temporary key I hold in my identifying pattern can reopen it if my energetic signature activates my disc."

Tron smiled. "[Good]."

From the discreet raise of Alan-One's brow, he must have let an edge of intrigue slip through.

Well.   
No matter.

"[In that case... would you be willing to spare a couple more h-sec here]?"

"It seems that I can, now, indeed," Alan-One gave him a small smile and politely dismissed the thanks that followed. Yet, his maker felt purpose behind Tron's request, so he prompted him to continue.

"[Well. You know that there are many ways to input here, don't you]?" At the dignified nod of his maker, he went on.   
"[Users— _Conceptors_ " (He corrected, as he knew that Alan-One and Lora didn't like to be designated by the former term.) "Can do much more than that]. [Sam and Lora had minutely rewritten many buildings from here, as you might know]."

"Indeed."

"[No matter how many times it happens, it is always _impressive_ to watch]," Tron muttered. 

"I imagine."

"[But buildings are not the only entities that can be inputted directly and in depth]." He lowered the frequency of his broadcast and flickered his gaze down to Alan-One's chest pattern. 

"[Conceptors can write small portions of code from here, as well]." 

At his maker clueless expression, Tron schooled himself not to sigh.

Having watched Clu and Flynn in hundreds of cycles; as he, himself, was left pinning after an invisible being had been a torture on its own for Tron. But _actually_ having Alan-One close, _enduring_ his oblivious tenderness and his accidental touches on signature patterns... now, that was not a situation a sparckled program could accept.

 _Deletion_ , it has been five cycles now that Alan-One, Lora, Sam and Roy had come and begun to reshape the Grid.   
_And he was getting much too distracted from his directives_.

If his sole User himself would not address the drive natural to any private program endowed with a Spark, Tron might as well want to hear a solid rebuttal than waste clutters of energy into empty hopes.   
He would learn to run without passion. There were other ways. And more importantly, _he would be able to work again_. 

He squared his shoulders and lowered his eyes.

"[But there are many ways to input, Alan-One]. [Do you want to try," he trailed off, trying to gauge his maker's expression to adjust his words; "to _trace_ ]?"

*

If not the words themselves, then Tron's tone and his submissive stance finally clicked together. 

Alan's blush crept up to his eyes but he anticipated it by resetting his glasses, covering his face.

Memories of a silly top-secret essay that Lora had entitled _The Intricate art of Interfacing_ and _The Seventh Paths to Exception_ came up to him. When Lora had passed him her tablet with the texts, he had snorted, laughed and teased her a little, without making much about it. 

He had completely refused to consider the topic anything but a fantasy of his wife, simply refusing to consider that his relation to his program could get any more complex than it already was... 

Now, he was in a panic.   
(Oh, it was a very silent kind of panic that no one would suspect—he had grown pretty good at controlling his composure. Or so he hoped.)

And yet, _somehow_ ; the mere eventuality of his wife and his best program being intimate together _without him_... made Alan had to mentally wrestle with a tiny but painful ember of envy. A little surprised at his own reaction, he blinked and massaged his eyes a few seconds to reset order in his mind.

Slowly letting go of his military stance, Tron half shrugged —the movement much too feline and calibrated to look casual in any way— and he rose a palm up to stress his words.

"[You could begin working through my disk]," He rose his other palm up. "[or you could _trace_ on my patterns.  
_In writing_ ]."

The silence that spread was more tense than comfortable.

.  
.  
.

"Listen, Tron, I... That's not a good idea." 

Tron spread up his palms in question. (Even if the narcissistic wound had been expected, the subsentient program couldn't help but add up gestures to his words, in the primal manner of the Sparkless.)   
~Alan felt more than he heard the confused and dismayed prompt, painfully clearer than the translation protocol of the laser could convey.

"[Alan-One]," he protested without meeting his eyes. "[You said that you would maintain me, even if—even I don't carry your signature anymore]. [I don't understand] [You are my User]..."

"Yes. _Because_ I am your User."

Beneath the stinging haze of rejection, his program gave him a look that seemed to say he just uttered a blatant oxymoron.

"Usually, between us, erm, between _conceptors_ ," (Alan searched for a pertinent word) "fulfilling _passion_ brings hazard... and, hazard bring its troubles," he stated matter-of-fact, masking his helplessness behind tuneless logic. 

Yet, silent set in. Eventually, he blinked and drew a breath.

"Think about it," he tried to soften his voice; "What if this doesn't go the way you want? I am responsible for your existence itself, Tron...

"What if someday you want out of this but you feel—" ( _dependent, insecure, trapped, afraid:_ he could find twice more adjectives) " _Uneasy_? Wouldn't working for me feel upsetting while we had something like this— I mean, intimacy and work hardly mix well..."

He drew another breath in and sighed.

"I don't want your trust to be broken because of something stupid I might do or fail to do."

Still staring with a puzzled frown, the program straightened up. Alan was once again facing the solitary warrior of the Outlands.

Unimpressed, almost defiant, Tron lifted his head to meet his programmer's. Then, he stepped closer, looked toward the identifying pattern on Alan's chest and made a slight sideway tilt with his chin. 

"[I would take the risk]," the basic whispered, transcended pain dignifying his features with a discreet glow. "[It has long been my decision to trust you to that extent, Alan-One. And it had never been a conditional]. [I am _not_ following a whim]."

Alan almost felt the determination and energy radiate from the autonomous security program. From that moment and on, he knew this would not be an argument that he could win even over himself.

Not when he was Tron's only User ; there was little to no danger in tracing over his program that he could not easily handle. The only unexpected element in this would be his presence on the Grid ; here, he would use a hand made of light instead of one made of dust, to input a network of trails that looked humanoid instead of a keyboard.

It felt so simple.

He exhaled in defeat. 

Conceding a nod, Alan let a tired smile lift the corner of his mouth and silently, gestured away. 

Relief flooded Tron's circuits like their colder hue. He tried to reign on a febrile joy but it minutely brightened his features. In full bloom, his program's grin was numinous. 

As they walked toward the city and Tron practically gliding above ground level, Alan felt his concerns about his program's free-will dissipate.

* * *

That was how they had arrived in his headquarters.

Tron lead him to a floor where no script of his headquarters came to interrupt him. 

When he gestured to the office there, he sensed his User's hesitation: it read in Alan-One's slightly tenser posture, his measured steps and the military-like way he was now assessing this place.

After a few seconds of complete silence, before Tron could consider to take an initiative, his maker took place on the armchair that governed his control center and turned it to face him.

He put the two palms of his hands down to the sleek and solid virtual surfaces of the armbands.

"Very well."

Resolute and grumbling, Alan-One drew the seat back and turned to face him.  
  
"Can I?"  
  
Tron did his best to reign on how he felt —he managed to keep a very minimum of decorum with some effort as he moved forward and took the outreached hand.  
  
Alan-One drew him in.

* * *

He would never have thought that things could come to this.

Solely... he had never known how to say no to Tron.

Thinking about the youthful creature sleeping on his stomach in terms of programming made him feel ill, it still echoed things like narcissism and abuse; but he _was_ Tron's creator, subsentient programs had sacred needs and the societies of their Grids held standards...

He had built Tron alone _and_ was his sole user... Which apparently put Alan in a special standing for basic programs; one paved up with very _precise_ expectations, and lidded with potential offenses. If not potential hearbreak.

(Well. He had never been someone to run from his responsibilities... even when, granted, they seemed... down to _overwhelming_ at first glance. Still, he would have hated to begin with a creature so candid and faithful.)

To answer both an innocent need and protect Tron's reputation, Alan had learnt to consider his ward as the child of his mind, a concept of creation who was tied to his creator through rules both sensible and fair, if yet foreign to his side of the screen.

That brought him somewhere, a last.

He worked with that.

And that had been it: no ambiguity, no false promises; he had only come here to give.

The means for doing so had turned out different than what humans did —either between family, or lovers.. Still, _tracing_ _was_ an activity steaming from passion, as solemn as it was. In a metaphysical way, Alan could acknowledge that Tron was his _Spark_. And he loved his digital ward as much as he loved his wife.

It didn't take many visit for his first subsentient creation's glances and laughter toke a number on his heart... hearing his named being moaned by a being of lightening as their structure colored for him... had been quite... flattering. And touching.

Feeling the virtual weight of Tron as he sagged in his arms, a content hum running through their channel was a unique and precious balm. 

The worlds has taken new colors as new finite purpose entered his life.

...Except that the light figure resting trustingly on his lap wasn't sleeping, it was _defragmenting_ and all of this was past _crazy_.

With a feeling of surrealness, he traced the dim glow of the last pathway that he had created in the left flank of his program.

Crazy and _priceless,_ he though, a growing warm smile tugging on his lips.


End file.
